Redemption
by TheChimeraSculptress
Summary: Trapped in his cell and consumed with guilt and despair over his mother's death, Loki is shocked to discover she had hidden a secret letter in one of the books she sent him. A letter that holds the key to his escape. But there are conditions...and risks...
1. Chapter 1

This fic is set after Thor 1 and Avengers, and begins at the part in Thor – The Dark World, where Loki has been told of his mother's death, and he sits, broken and bloodied, after screaming his despair (as in the deleted scene). This also starts just before his brother visits his cell to ask for his help regarding the Aether/Dark Elf Malekith.

Consumed with despair Loki finds a secret letter from his mother in one of the books she gave him.

* * *

Redemption

* * *

Chapter One

Loki's hands shook as he began to read the letter, his heart pounding against his ribs like a fist as he instantly recognised his mother's writing. The familiarity of her elegant hand made the back of his throat burn and his chest tighten painfully. To find this letter now...so suddenly after her death...the death which he, himself, felt responsible for...

_My dear Loki_

_As you are no doubt aware, your father has forbidden any contact between us, something which pains me greatly. I will not lie, my son. What happened down on Midgard all but broke my heart. Your shenanigans and mischief making is part of your nature and cannot be altered, but so much death of so many innocents? I grasp at the hope that you were being steered. That the evil seed was planted by another. I cannot comprehend my Loki with so much blood on his hands. _

_But your imprisonment also breaks my heart. That you must spend the rest of your days in that terrible cell. I find myself conflicted, my mind tormented, my heart grieving, for the beloved son I seem to have lost. _

_I also feel guilt. That it is partly my fault, keeping the truth from you, that was the reason your soul became so vulnerable to the darkness._

_The book, Loki. The book I have hidden this letter within. It is my small amends. My peace offering. Turn quickly to page 153. Though it frightens me to indulge you with such power, you are competent enough in the Magic Arts to acknowledge the implications. Both good and bad._

_Because there will be risks. There is a chance you may not survive the intensity of such an incantation. Few have. The choice is yours. If you do decide to make the casting, it will give you freedom either way. But whether Valhalla, or Midgard, I do not know. I pray it will be the latter._

_I ask only one request of you for my part in this. Should the incantation prove successful, I beg of you, a single Midgardian year. Spend a year with those you have wronged. Those that you feel are so beneath you. They live and breathe no different from us, Loki. They do not deserve your contempt, your cruel disdain. Try to make your amends. Try to do some good._

_A year is all I ask, Loki. A short duration for us Asgardians, and then your path is your own. Please, my son, make your mother proud. And yes, I am your mother. I have always loved you with a mother's love: deep and raw and binding. From the moment I first laid eyes upon your sweet face. I hope that one day I will look upon your face again and see the conflicts that ravage your handsome features replaced with some semblance of peace. _

_I am, and always will be, your doting mother. _

_Frigga_

Seeing her name sent the grief flooding through him again and the letter began to crumple between his trembling fingers. Realising what he was doing, he calmed himself with a start, shaken by his actions, quickly smoothing out the parchment, folding it carefully, tenderly, before slipping it into his pocket.

Oh, mother...

Her beautiful face filled his senses. Her smile, so warm, so loving...

Too exhausted, in both body and mind, to scream out his rage a second time, he choked back his pain, its fire lodging like a flaming ember in his throat. His head stooped, weighted with despair, his long dank hair hanging down, hiding his face.

Hiding his shame.

_Then am I not your mother?_

_You're not._

Words he could never take back...

His eyes blurred and he angrily blinked away his emotions, disgusted by such weakness. He was a _God_. He didn't submit to such _sentiment_. Instead, he suppressed his anguish and inhaled deeply, his chest heaving beneath his tunic as he wrestled the conflicts swirling around his head.

A year? His mother expected him to spend a year on Midgard? Amongst petty mortals? What _good_ could he possibly do down on Midgard? _Willingly?_

But how could he refuse her? He _owed _her. In a cruel twist of irony, the contents of the letter had become her dying wish.

No, he could not deny her.

After what seemed like an eternity, he summoned the energy to glance back up, passed his bloodied feet, across the scattered and broken contents of his cell, towards the small book. It lay open but was upturned, its pages crushed beneath the weight of its thick red leather cover.

He lifted his arm, stretching it taut, contorting his fingers elegantly, and the book rose from the ground, crumpled pages closing awkwardly. Hovering a moment in the tense air, it began to drift fluidly across to his outstretched hand.

Its title, lavishly scribed in gold, flashed in the harsh light of his cell as it settled upon his palm.

_Seidr_

He took a sharp intake of breath as he stared down at the title in shock, the book suddenly becoming all the more weightier in his hand. It was one of the oldest books of magic in his mother's possession, the most sacred, the most valuable, but also the most dangerous. Which was why she had always kept it hidden from him.

Until now.

How could he have missed it amongst the small pile of books she had sent to him? Had she used her own magic to disguise it until he found the letter?

Granting him a moment of respite, his sorrow was dulled as excitement sparked through his veins instead. He felt more like himself again, instantly reviving, drawing back his shoulders, sitting taller, purposefully, as his fingers quickly sought out the page.

* * *

Author's note -

I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this story. I have some vague ideas/scenes in my head but will kinda be making it up as I go along. I only saw Thor, Avengers and Thor 2 for the first time at Easter (yeah, I've entered the fandom a bit late!), so this is my first Loki fic. But I've just been dying to get into his head!

Thor/Jane and the Malekith storyline will feature at some stage, but I don't know when. Probably much later in the story. My main focus will be Loki's return to Earth and his interactions with a woman who is battling her own grief and turmoil. If that sounds like your cup of tea then read on!

Feedback sooooo appreciated, thanks!:)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Intense darkness was accompanied by excruciating pain. A scream ripped through his senses that didn't sound like his own, yet he knew it was because it echoed the molten fire that swept through his limbs. Then there was an explosion of sharp golden light that ended his torment as suddenly as it had come.

He was either dead and this was Valhalla, or he had made the passing to Midgard.

He blinked open his eyes, discovering that the bright light was streaming in through a small window; what appeared to be a Midgardian window for it possessed none of the size or grandeur of Valhalla.

The casting had worked!

He flinched when he felt a warm trickle run down from his nose and he quickly reached up to investigate. Drawing back his hand he discovered it smeared with blood.

His nose was bleeding?

As he started to sit up his vision swam nauseatingly and he stopped, waiting for the world to cease spinning. While he did so he was forced to acknowledge the pounding behind his temples, the heaviness of his limbs, and the abnormal racing of his heart.

It seemed he hadn't emerged totally unscathed from the incantation after all, though considering its intensity, he told himself that he should be thankful he wasn't feeling any worse.

After several long deep breaths he felt recovered enough to rise to his knees, though he still didn't feel well enough to attempt standing. Instead, he took a moment to observe his surroundings, his keen instincts, gleaned over the centuries, reassuring him that the house was empty and there was no immediate need for a hasty exit. In his present weakened state he didn't think he'd be able to summon the energy to vacate the building even if he had to.

He appeared to be in a living area. Very small compared to Asgardian standards, though the stone fireplace and chimney breast were generous for such a modest room. There was no Asgardian finery, but it was not an unpleasant dwelling, certainly no hovel, possessing a warmth and intimacy that might be tolerable...in small doses.

There were exposed dark wood beams across the low ceiling and walls, the latter beams partly submerged in a smooth cream coloured plaster. The room possessed an archaic atmosphere, a sense of history, of time, and he suspected it was a couple of centuries old, what a Midgardian would call _a cottage_.

The furniture was minimal - a small, well worn sofa situated opposite the fireplace, scattered with cushions and flanked by two matching chairs; a low rectangular table topped with a bowl of fruit; a couple of tall lamps; varying sized rugs littering the floor, and several large plants nestling in corners and niches.

He felt more blood trickle from his nose and wiped it away impatiently as he continued his scrutiny.

A tall, wide, dresser filled most of the back wall, dotted with candles, ornamentation, but mostly pictures in frames - what the Midgardian's called _photographs_. A young couple smiled back at him from most of them.

Wanting to view them more closely, he made a second attempt to rise. The nausea returned but it was more subdued now, the dizziness less severe. Reaching out an arm to steady himself he slowly manoeuvred his aching limbs across to the photographs, leaning heavily against the dresser for support.

Loki frowned down at the mortals, wondering why he even cared what they looked like. But since he had nothing better to do, it would pass the time while his body recovered from the effects of the incantation.

The man was dark haired and uninteresting, possessing no redeeming features, like most Midgardians. The woman, though nowhere near as beautiful as the women on Asgard, had an enchanting smile and shock of long flame-red hair that he found particularly intriguing. Few Asgardian women possessed such a striking hair colour.

His frown deepened, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.

Why had the incantation transported him into the house of a young mortal couple? A _married_ couple, he realised, his eyes falling upon a wedding photograph. He found himself reaching for it, drawn once again to the woman's hair, now piled high upon her head and decorated with tiny flowers. It contrasted so vividly against the white of her bridal gown.

Replacing the frame, he gave the others one final look that was part disdain, part boredom. He saw no photographs of children, so assumed they had not reached that stage in their pitifully short lives.

He suddenly tensed, sensing a presence behind him. Turning with a start, that rendered him slightly dizzy again, he was surprised to find no one there. That was, until he dropped his gaze.

The large, grey, long-haired, cat regarded him from the living room floor. There was curiosity within the angular green eyes, but no trace of fear.

Loki raised an eyebrow as it blinked lazily up at him.

Rolling his eyes he turned away. Midgardians had such an obsession with keeping animals in their homes. Ignoring it, he made for the nearest door, though every step proved a challenge – his legs felt like lead. He wondered whether it would be wiser to lie down for a short while. A full recovery might be swifter that way.

He entered a small hallway that contained a narrow flight of stairs and three further doors. One was clearly the main exit he eagerly sought, but he found himself hesitating, attention snared to another, which was slightly ajar.

Books?

Curiosity got the better of him and he reached out, opening it wide, staring through the sunlight and swirling dust motes into what must have been the smallest library in existence. Three sides of the tiny box room, minus the doorway, were filled with books from floor to ceiling. The forth wall contained a mahogany desk and plush black leather chair in front of a wide window.

It was the woman's domain, he surmised. Not only was it extremely tidy and ordered, there were too many feminine touches – a vase of fresh flowers on the window sill, crystals hanging above that cast rainbows across the room, and upon the desk was a framed photograph of the dark haired man. He doubted he would have a photograph of himself upon his desk.

As well as the photograph, there was one of those machines...what was it called? A lap...top? And another, chunkier machine, that had blank paper stacked up beside it. Midgardian..._technology_...still daunted him. It was a strange, unpredictable sort of magic, though he felt he would like to master it one day.

He clenched his fists. If everything had gone to plan during his _first _visit, and those cursed Avengers hadn't interfered, he would have had a Midgardian _servant_ explain it to him by now. His humiliating defeat still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Calming himself, he slowly unfurled his fingers, reminding himself that there were still other realms. Still time. He wouldn't fail again.

His mother's face flashed into his mind and he sighed.

But first, he was stuck on this miserable world for a year. And it was _only_ his love for Frigga, and the guilt of her death, that would keep him here. Though how he was supposed to _do good_, he couldn't begin to fathom. The God of Mischief didn't _do _good!

Vexed by the very thought, he turned, scowling down at his feet when he realised that the cat was following him. Continuing to ignore it, he vowed that if the beast dared trip him up he wouldn't hesitate to give it a little kick.

But at that moment, the cat's ears suddenly pricked back and it hurried back out into the hall. Loki tensed as the sound of a key began turning in the front door lock.

* * *

Author's note - I didn't elaborate on the incantation that brought Loki to Earth. Let's just say that it was a very powerful teleporting spell that kinda became obsolete and forgotten once the Gods became able to teleport themselves to realms via Heimdall and that rainbow gate thingie! :P


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Loki heard the front door opening, the sudden amplified sound of birds singing outside, the rattling of keys being removed from the lock, and the door closing again. A soft female voice followed – the woman from the photographs?

"Hey, Sash. Have you come to greet me, eh?"

She was talking to the cat? Loki refrained from rolling his eyes a second time.

"Want your dinner, do you?"

_Yes_, Loki urged. _Feed the beast. _Go away, towards the kitchen, where ever that may be, and do not come into the library. That way, he could make a quick escape and she would be none the wiser.

"...just let me put these new books away..."

_Damn it_, Loki scowled irritably. It appeared she had a voracious appetite for books. And while he would normally approve of such a passion, being a lover of books himself, it was not going to help the present situation.

His pupils dilated, eyes darkening with intent, as he evoked his invisibility.

To his shock nothing happened.

He tried again but felt only an unpleasant tingling, like pins and needles, in his arms and hands.

He felt a flicker of panic. His magic had never failed him before. Did this have something to do with his present weakened state? The effect of the incantation? Surely not. He had performed magic with both a raging fever and serious head wound in the past.

Hearing the woman draw closer to the room, he opted for Plan B, quickly glancing back towards the desk, at the framed photograph of the man.

By the time she had reached the library door he had shape shifted into her husband's guise, relieved that his magic hadn't completely failed him, but alarmed by the extent of pain it gave him. Shape shifting was usually as natural and as fluid as breathing. Something was wrong with him, that much was obvious, and it was affecting his magic as well as his physical being. His hope was that it would only be temporary.

As he braced himself for the confrontation, he tried to relax into the persona. He had no idea what the man was like, his mannerisms, his voice, all those little idiosyncrasies that made a person unique. But he had no other option. It was either this or remain himself, and she would be less likely to panic if she saw a familiar face.

But when she finally met his gaze, her reaction was not quite what he expected.

Her eyes widened in shock, instantly glazing with tears, and he watched in morbid fascination as the colour swiftly drained from her face leaving her pallor disturbingly ashen. The books fell to the floor with a dull thud as she reached a hand up to her chest, her fingers trembling.

"David?" she choked, barely able to get the name out.

It was then that Loki saw what she was reaching for – a gold band on the end of a chain. What appeared to be a ring.

He noticed there were no rings on any of her fingers.

"No..." she gasped. "No...this can't be real..."

Acknowledgement hit Loki like a ton of bricks and frustration flooded through him when he realised his mistake, that he had shape shifted into a _dead_ man. The ring was obviously her wedding ring, removed from her finger but too cherished to be excluded entirely from her possession.

What the curses was he supposed to do now?

Her eyes frantically roamed his face and she seemed desperately torn. Wanting to rush across and embrace him but shock holding her with a vise's grip.

"_David?_"

So many emotions swept across her face – pain, disbelief, hope...joy – and Loki found his irritation giving way to genuine regret. Maybe it was because he recognised her torment all too well, his own grief still so raw.

He realised that he had no choice.

As he shape shifted back into himself, simply clothed as he had been in his cell, she recoiled back in fear and confusion.

"David?"

He sighed, knowing there was no easy way of doing this. "No. I am not."

Whether due to the confirmation, or the shape shifting itself, Loki didn't know, but her legs suddenly buckled beneath her and she crumpled to the floor with a sob.

Loki frowned his discomfiture, finding himself in unfamiliar territory. How could he sneer at such a display of sentimentality, when, for the first time in his long life, he was battling the same emotions.

"I did not know your husband had passed. I am..." he hesitated as she stared up at him in bewilderment, her eyes still glassy, her whole body trembling now. "...I am...sorry," he added, the latter coming somewhat reluctantly. He was not accustomed to apologising.

"David?" she repeated mechanically, and there was pleading in her tone, her mind seeming unable to accept this different man, still focussed upon the fact that her dead husband had appeared before her.

"No," Loki said more firmly, his irritation beginning to rise again. "I shape shifted into his guise so as not to alarm you with my own."

She frowned her uncertainty, slowly shaking her head. "Shape...shifted...?"

He took a step closer and she shrank back, slamming into a bookshelf.

He watched her impatiently, so very tempted to simply hurry passed her quivering form and make his exit. He had no time for this! Mortals were always so problematic.

But his mother's face was there again, in his mind, haunting him like a ghost. A ghost he welcomed, of course, but haunting him all the same. She had begged him to do good. Maybe reassuring the woman would be a step in that direction.

"I am not going to harm you..." he added tersely, stepping closer.

"Don't!" she cried out, taking him aback with her sudden outburst.

She appeared to have finally gathered her senses, though her body and eyes still betrayed her fears. Scrambling to her feet, she splayed out a defensive hand in a bid to keep him at arm's length. "Stay away from me!"

He hesitated, pleased that she had snapped out of her stupor at last. She had a bit of fire in her after all. He took a step back. "As you wish."

"What...what the hell are you?" she whispered hoarsely.

He regarded her curiously. Did she not recognise him? Her voice sounded English so he concluded he had been transported somewhere in England, but surely she would have seen him on one of those...televisions? It was several Midgardian months ago...but surely his exploits would have reached all corners of their world by now.

He felt a twisting in his chest that had nothing to do with the effects of the incantation this time.

Then again...what was there to recognise, he lamented, anger and despair rushing through his veins in equal measure. His hair long and unkempt, clothes dishevelled, feet still bare and bloodied. He was but a shadow of his former self. Nothing like the powerful conqueror he had been in New York.

But then something else dawned on him and he seized upon the thought, not wishing to succumb to his own demons in front of this mortal woman.

He had not noticed one of those televisions in her living quarters. And this library certainly had no room for such a sizeable contraption.

Though he accepted there were other rooms that might house one, he found himself scrutinising her face, at its thinness, bordering upon gaunt, at the dark circles around her eyes. She also looked a shadow of the happy vibrant woman in the photographs. Her features reflected her grief all too well and he wondered how long her husband had been dead. Had she simply been too preoccupied with her own turmoil to care about that of the world's?

"Are you an alien?"

Her words caught him by surprise and he arched a brow. "A _what?_"

"There's this movie – _Starman_ – this reminds me..." she stopped suddenly, as if wary of continuing.

As their eyes locked she took a couple of shallow breaths. A hint of colour had returned to her cheeks but she still reminded him of a cornered animal, preparing for flight at the first opportunity. There was a deep primal part of Loki that relished the power he had over her, while his more pragmatic side knew that terrifying her senseless was not going to be a good start to fulfilling his mother's wish.

Seeing that she was trying to summon some semblance of courage, even admiring her for it, Loki slipped his hands behind his back, interlocked his fingers, and leaned forward slightly. "Where upon Midgard am I?"

She looked at him strangely. "Midgard?"

Her ignorance made him sigh inwardly. "You call it _Earth_."

She blinked, perplexed, and there was caution in her eyes. "This is England...if that's what you mean."

He nodded. "As I suspected."

"...you sound English."

He narrowed his eyes, insulted. How dare she think him from Midgard! "But I am _not_, I assure you."

There was a long drawn out silence.

"Then where are you from?" the woman dared.

He smirked. "Somewhere far, far away."

"A galaxy?"

He detected a hint of humour in her own tone though her delivery remained tense and guarded. He didn't understand the reason behind her jesting, however, and was about to question her on it when he felt blood trickle from his nose again.

"You're bleeding..." she blurted in surprise.

"I am well aware of that," he returned shortly, sweeping his fingers roughly across his face, the fresh blood smearing across his hand, mingling with the dry. He frowned. These curs-ed maladies were proving most tiresome. He had hoped that by now...

Pain suddenly exploded behind his eyes, ripping through his consciousness and instantly terminating his chain of thought. He staggered, clutching his head in his hands as the dizziness returned with a vengeance, the room spinning faster and faster with no sign of slowing. With a strangled cry it was his turn to slam painfully to his knees.

When he found himself inadvertently reaching out to the woman, he was just coherent enough to feel a flare of self-disgust before his world turned dark again.

* * *

Author's note - if you haven't seen the movie _Starman_ I recommend you watch the trailer over at You Tube. That way you can kinda see what the woman means. The movie is very good and stars a very young Jeff Bridges, and the beautiful Karen Allen.

Thanks for reading. Feedback is MUCH appreciated and it encourages me to write more! *wink*


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Heart racing, April stared across at the unconscious man.

Was he...dead?

She wrapped her arms protectively around her, noticing that she was still shaking slightly. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but it was as if her body had a will of its own.

This couldn't be happening.

She was either dreaming, or her grief had finally given her some sort of mental breakdown that was making her hallucinate.

The third possibility, that he _was_ actually lying slumped in the middle of her study, simply couldn't be possible. Discovering an intruder in her house, yes, that was plausible, but one who could..._shape shift? _

She still hadn't recovered from the sight of seeing David standing there, so alive, so _real_. Despite every fibre of her being telling her that it couldn't possibly be her husband standing in front of her, there had been a part of her desperately clinging on to the hope that it really_ was_ him. That there had somehow been a terrible mistake and David hadn't really died, that they had buried another man.

But then he had gone. Been snatched away from her again. Disappeared in front of her eyes as quickly as he appeared. Replaced by a strange man who couldn't have been more different from her husband.

She felt a surge of anger rush through her and she clenched her trembling fists. How could he have done that? Been so cruel? To steal the identity of the man she missed, yearned for, so very much. Though she had been pretty overwhelmed by shock, she vaguely recalled him apologising, but what good was that? The deed had already been done. Her heart had been shattered all over again.

She glared down at him, though she was still tense with fear.

Who the hell was he?

Her eyes ran tentatively over him, noticing his bare, bloodied feet for the first time. There was also blood on his top and smeared across his face. The latter was no doubt from his nose bleed, but she had no idea what had happened to his feet.

He looked very pale, his raven black hair only emphasising the fact, though whether that was his natural colouring or through being ill, she didn't know. His face was lean, his cheekbones high and well defined, his brows heavy and brooding, his lips thin and somehow...sardonic, even while unconscious.

His clothes were unusual, though she couldn't quite put her finger on just what made them different. The forest green top looked more like a tunic and had an old-fashioned feel about it. His trousers, on the other hand, were a material not unlike leather, and looked more like something a rock star would wear.

He didn't look like an alien, but what if this form was simply _another_ deception, and he was really green with three eyes and long spindly arms?

She took another breath.

Christ. What was she supposed to do now?

Call the police? The FBI? Did those X-File departments actually exist in real life? Because this was certainly a case for Mulder and Scully.

She dragged her hands through her hair despairingly. Oh, why had he chosen her house, of all houses, to _fall to earth? _As if her life hadn't been traumatic enough!

She thought of David again and as her chest tightened, a perverse part of her wished the man was still in her husband's form, just so that she could see him, be with him, a little longer. She could pretend it really _was_ David - his beautiful smile that could be adorably boyish, his warm brown eyes with the endearing crinkles, his soft chestnut hair that curled stubbornly at the nape of his neck. Oh, for just one final time...

She reached back up for her wedding ring, clutching it tightly, as she promptly shook away the thought, disturbed by such an idea, realising how wrong it was. This man was _not _David. He never had been. He was an imposter. A cruel trickster.

She found herself nervously taking a step closer.

A dead trickster?

Her heart pounded so hard she feared he might hear it. Despite this, she took another step...then another...finally squatting down beside him, ignoring the little voice in her head telling her to get the hell out of the room, the hell away from him.

Was he breathing?

She scanned his torso, searching for that tell tale rise and fall of his chest.

Was that slight movement she detected?

Before she could stop herself, she reached out, not quite sure what she was intending to do. Check for a pulse, perhaps?

She gasped when his hand shot out, snatching at her arm, his fingers curling around her wrist tightly. His eyes snapped open.

"What are you doing?!" he snarled.

She tried to pull away but his grip was like steel. "Ow! You're hurting!"

"I asked you a question, mortal!"

"I was checking!"

"For what?!"

"To see if you were dead!"

He blinked his surprise at her answer, easing his grip, though he did not completely free her. April stared down at him in panic. Oh god. He was going to kill her. Why hadn't she damn well called the police when she had the chance?

But when their eyes met she was surprised to see his soften a degree. A smile twitched at his mouth, though it was cheerless. When he suddenly released her, his hand dropping to the floor as if it had been zapped of energy, she quickly shuffled away from him.

He turned his head weakly towards her. "As you can see, I am not," he replied curtly.

April braced herself for an attack but he did not move. He did not even rise. She did, however, notice him flexing his fingers experimentally.

Frowning, perplexed, he regarded her soberly. "But I fear I might be dying."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5...

Loki had never felt like this. He had been ill with fevers on occasions, he had been injured numerous times on the battle field, and in the early days of practising the Magic Arts he had many mishaps that had resulted in minor maladies, but he had never been rendered completely powerless before. The pains that wreaked his body he could endure, but this debilitating fatigue, this weakness of his limbs, was unbearable. Even something as simple as trying to hold on to the mortal had proven an effort, his initial flare of strength gutting like a candle flame.

She was watching him hesitantly and there was suspicion in her eyes. She didn't trust him. Why did that not surprise him.

Ignoring her, he contorted his fingers again, trying to conjure his magic, but now there was nothing at all, just that same pins and needles sensation. He wondered whether the shape shifting had been too much and had drained him of energy. Maybe it was what had sparked the intense pain and made him lose consciousness. The thought that such a simple incantation could do that made him feel genuine fear for the first time in his life. His mother had not been lying when she said there would be risks.

What if it _wasn't _temporary?

Without his magic, he had nothing. _Was_ nothing. He would rather be dead. Valhalla wouldn't be so bad...unless he ended up in Helheim...and he feared his recent actions on Midgard might have him heading for the latter.

No, he tried to reassure himself. He was being melodramatic. It was temporary. It had to be. He had no intention of dying today, especially on Midgard of all places. He was destined for greater things. He was destined to be a _king_.

Bolstered by that thought, he made an attempt to move but it felt as if Thor's hammer was pressing down upon his chest again, while beneath him, the floor was hard and unyielding against his back.

"I need to gather my strength," he said at length. "I cannot do that lying upon this floor. You will provide me with a bed in which to rest."

Loki observed a flicker of a frown upon her face but was satisfied to see that her fear was still predominant. She would bend to his will.

"So you're..._not _dying?"

Her words amused him. "You sound disappointed."

When she didn't answer, he sighed his vexation. "I know not, whether I am destined to live or die. But until I do I wish to be comfortable."

"How will you get upstairs?" There was a flash of defiance in her eyes as well as her tone. That fire was back. He liked it. It restored some life back to her bereft features.

He swallowed down his pride. "_You_ will assist me." He regarded her undernourished frame doubtfully. "_Somehow_." She was wearing those blue britches that all Midgardians had an inclination to wear, and a white tunic top. Both seemed ill fitting. Grief appeared to have stolen her appetite as well as the woman in the photographs.

Battling his exhaustion, he made a second attempt to rise, clenching his fists through the pain.

When the woman didn't respond he grew impatient. "I said _help me_, mortal!"

She reacted instantly this time, returning to his side, wrapping her arms around him as he did the same to her. Struggling to their feet, he staggered again, and felt her clutch him tighter. He was trying hard not to burden her with his entire weight - he had no desire to collapse a second time – but it was proving difficult.

"You are stronger than you look," he lied, in a vain attempt to encourage her.

"And you're heavier than you look," she countered breathlessly.

He smirked through his pain. "Touche."

They stumbled out into the hall and Loki just caught a flash of grey furry tail fleeing into the woman's living quarters. The cat wasn't so brave after all, he thought dryly.

They hesitated a moment at the foot of the stairs and Loki was glad he was positioned closest to the banister. He leaned against it for added support and the woman sighed beneath her breath, grateful for the relief.

"This will take my weight?" he questioned.

"I've no idea."

"Your optimism is most reassuring," he threw back sarcastically.

"Well, it's old."

He glared up the stairs. A mere dozen at most. Steps he could practically fly up in his normal state. But could now barely ascend without the aid of a petty mortal.

"Perhaps you could divide your weight between me and the banister?"

Her words made him see red and his anger flared. He hated feeling so helpless, so fallible. He was a _god_. A force to be reckoned with! "Why not carry me like a babe in arms and have done with it!"

She promptly released him and he had no choice but to lean his whole weight against the banister.

"Or why don't I just leave you here and call the police?" she finally snapped. "I could've left you on the study floor and done just that!"

He scowled back at her realising that they had met an impasse. "And why didn't you?"

She faltered, her spirit deflating. "I...I don't know."

She was lying. He could see it in her eyes. He knew exactly why. The fact that he had shape shifted into her husband. _Sentimentality._ He decided not to rile her further by saying so, however, reluctantly accepting that if he wanted her help he had to be both tactful...and co-operative. Such a pity neither trait came easily to him.

He feigned a smile for her benefit even though he could tell that she saw straight through it. "Your assistance would be...appreciated."

They stared at one another a moment longer and she eventually yielded, reaching out for him, though somewhat grudgingly. As he wrapped his arm around her again he kept the other pressed heavily against the banister.

They had barely traversed the first step when she stopped. "You know, there's always the sofa."

"I've seen it. And I think _not_."

"Just a thought."

"Not a very productive one."

Though she didn't reply he could sense her irritation and his mouth twitched into a discreet smile. She was so easily nettled. She might prove an entertaining distraction while he recovered. In fact, it might even be beneficial to her. Bring some colour back to those pale cheeks. He could be doing some good while having some fun at the same time. He doubted his mother would exactly approve his tactics but then, she did understand and accept his nature more than most.

He felt his chest tighten again when he realised that he was thinking about her as if she was still alive. In the present tense.

She _had _understood his nature more than most.

He found it impossible to believe she was gone. That he would never see her again. That they would never discuss magic as they walked through her beloved gardens. Never share their favourite window seat in the library and read in companionable silence. Never hear her delightful laugh when he confessed some trivial but amusing shenanigan.

How could she be dead? Death was the curse of _this _miserable world, not Asgard. He vowed he would avenge her. Hunt down those culpable. His desire for revenge burned as fiercely as the pain through his veins but his present circumstances left him helpless. Even if he recovered, even if he delayed his mother's wishes, returning to Asgard would be as risky as fleeing it had been.

He and the Midgardian had almost reached the top of the stairs when he stumbled, his left leg almost giving way beneath him. As he fell into the woman, knocking them both back against the wall, he lashed out, still heated from thoughts of his mother's murderer.

"Have a care, _mortal!_"

She struggled to regain both her balance and her hold on him. "I have a name, you know! And it's not _mortal_!"

Their faces were mere inches apart and for the first time, Loki acknowledged the intensity of her green eyes, the thickness of her long lashes, the sweeping arches of her brows.

"What is it with all this _mortal_ stuff, anyway?" she snapped venomously, her courage growing with her frustrations. "Are you trying to say that you're not? That you're _immortal_?"

His gaze continued to roam her face. The sprinkling of freckles across her small nose, and the full, rather sensual mouth. All framed by that fire-red mane of spiralling hair. She could certainly benefit from some regular meals, but she wasn't exactly hard upon the eyes. Not quite beautiful, but certainly endearing.

He smirked again. "Give or take five thousand years."

She flushed at his scrutiny, though at the same time, confusion swept across her features, followed by a hint of alarm.

She swallowed nervously. "How can you be immortal when you claim to be dying?"

He frowned. "_That_ is the crux of the matter. And the sooner I lay down and rest, the sooner I will discover what fate has decided for me."

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Hope you're enjoying!

This chapter was written a bit quickly so might be tweaked a bit more.

Reviews muchly appreciated, thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

April sighed her relief as the man collapsed onto the bed of the spare bedroom. Supporting him up a flight of stairs hadn't been easy. Though he was lean, he was very tall, and she hadn't lied when she said he was heavier than he looked. Combined with his short temper, incessant demands, and sheer ingratitude, she was glad to finally be rid of the arrogant bastard.

She felt a little guilty as she stared down at him though. His breathing was laboured, he was grimacing in pain, and he looked even paler than before. The journey up the stairs had evidently been a trial for him too.

"So, enlighten me," he wheezed, as he finally sprawled upon his back, hands splayed across his stomach.

"What?"

He glared at her as if she were stupid. "Your name."

"Oh."

"_Well?"_ he pressed. "You seemed so anxious for me to know it, so _do_ tell! Do not keep me in suspense."

Dangerous or not, April was a breath away from telling him to go to hell. His words were dripping with sarcasm.

"April," she threw back, just as shortly.

His slight hesitation was swiftly followed by: "_No_, I believe it is the Midgardian month of _June_ at present," but his mocking smirk wasn't to last, wiped from his face by another grimace. April noticed that his hands had clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

"Look, can I...get you something? Some pain killers or something?"

"There is nothing on _Midgard_ that can combat such potent magic," he sneered, though his voice was becoming so hoarse she could barely make out his words. He swallowed, trying to clear his throat. "Water," he demanded instead, and then to April's shock he added rather desperately: "._..please..._"

Nodding briskly, she hurried back down the stairs, through the living room, and into the sunlit kitchen. The cat looked up at her anxiously from the tiled floor, bushy tail swishing agitatedly back and forth.

"You look as antsy as I feel, Sash," she sighed, snatching up a glass and taking it to the sink.

As she was filling it she took a deep breath.

Was this really happening?

Was there really a man laying, maybe dying, on her spare bed? A man from another world...planet...dimension..._wherever _it was he came from_._

The big question was, could she trust him? What happened if he recovered? He seemed dangerous enough half dead so just how formidable would he be normally? He was obviously no ordinary man. He had powers. _Magical _powers. And she had no idea to what extent.

As she was returning back through the living room with the glass in her hand she stopped suddenly, her concerns quickly making way for curiosity when she noticed a book lying upon the living room floor. It certainly wasn't one of hers.

It wasn't very big, about half an A4 page, if that. Its red leather cover was beautifully ornate, the title scribed in gold lettering, surrounded by decorative symbols and scrolls. It looked extremely old, as if it should be in a museum of antiquities, locked away in a display case, beneath a protective layer of glass, yet despite this appearance of fragility it looked somehow...powerful.

She instinctively knew it was connected to the man upstairs. How could it not be? There were also splatters of blood on the rug beside it and she guessed this was where he had first appeared.

She knelt down to get a better look.

_Seidr_

The title sent a shiver running down her spine, though more from excitement than fear. She had no idea what it meant, whether it was the name of something, or a word in a different language. It didn't matter. A book was a book. And books were her addiction. They had also been her only comfort since she had lost David, her only escape from the cruel reality of his death.

She reached for it but stopped with a start, some sixth sense warning her that the book was as dangerous as the man upstairs. She swallowed nervously, slowly wafting her hand a few inches above it, alarmed to feel a slight tingling sensation in her fingers.

"My god..."

She searched the air around it but could see nothing. Yet there was definitely something there. An aura surrounding it. A tension. Some strange anomaly. She could feel it even if she couldn't see it.

She stood up reluctantly, loathe to abandon such a beautiful book, but telling herself that she would have to be patient. Hopefully, the man wouldn't die and she could question him about it. If he did die...well, she would take the risk and read it anyway.

When she returned to the spare bedroom, his eyes were closed and he looked very still, but she could see from the rise and fall of his chest that he was still in the land of the living. His brow glistened with sweat, however, his long raven-black hair slick with it.

"Your water," she said quietly, and his eyes opened wearily. They were glazed and terribly bloodshot and she feared his health was rapidly deteriorating.

He lifted slightly, reaching out for the glass, but as she handed it to him she noticed his brow furrow. He hesitated, his finger lightly brushing the top of her hand, making her flinch and almost spill some of the water.

"And what is this?" he murmured.

The scar across her wrist seemed to throb at his invasive touch. "None of your business."

Taking the glass he drained its contents thirstily.

When she took the empty glass from him, placing it upon the bedside table, he laid back down, regarding her soberly. "Mortal lives are short enough. I would have thought it not in your best interests to shorten it any further."

"You said you wanted to rest," she pointed out curtly, having no desire to talk about such painful times. "So I'll leave you to rest."

She turned and made to exit the room. There was nothing else she could do for him now. She had tolerated his abuse long enough, longer than he deserved. She was also eager to return to the living room and take another look at that book.

"_Wait."_

She hesitated in the doorway, finally glancing back at him.

The pain was getting worse, she could clearly see the strain upon his face. A vein pulsed angrily in his taut neck as he struggled to swallow again.

"Did you want some more water?"

His chest heaved and he looked conflicted, as if he were struggling some inner quandary, battling both frustration and despair.

"If I am to die...I..." he faltered and their eyes locked.

Despite everything, his arrogance, his dominating presence, the very threat that surrounded him, April felt a lump lodge in her throat. He didn't just look ill, he looked...haunted. But by what demons, she wondered uneasily.

"...I do not wish to die alone..."

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Just a quickie little chapter. Might edit it a bit more later.

Reviews always appreciated, thanks! :)


	7. Chapter 7

Another quickie little chapter because I'm busy with other things. Hope you enjoy though. Reviews always appreciated. :)

* * *

Chapter 7

Loki mentally cringed. Had he really said that to the mortal. How pathetic.

And yet...

He grimaced again. He could not deny that the pain was becoming excruciating now. That his heart was racing more wildly than he had ever known, his whole body was on fire, and there was a pressure inside his head that felt as if it were being crushed between invisible hands.

He had been deluding himself, he accepted wretchedly (though he had to applaud the irony - the liar lying to himself!) He must, indeed, be dying. How could he not with such maladies? Death was closing in fast.

He didn't feel afraid of death itself, only an overwhelming sense of disappointment. That the incantation had not worked. That he would never be king. That he had lived thousands of years only for it to end..._like this?_

But he also felt...dare he admit it...alone? For the first time in his long life. And that was why he had called after the mortal. Though he regretted it immediately. He might be weak of body but he still possessed his faculties!

She gaped at him, obviously taken aback by his words, but the compassion flooding her eyes left him equally dumbstruck, and battling conflicting feelings of his own. She still cared? Even after his treatment of her? He was both moved and repelled by the thought. He did _not_ want her pity.

But neither did he want her to leave.

She remained silent as she slowly returned to his side and stared down at him hesitantly. "Are you sure?"

"Sit!" he hissed, making her flinch, and she quickly sat down upon the edge of the bed beside him.

He took a long breath, an apology lodging stubbornly in his throat. When she started to speak he promptly swallowed it down, telling himself that he owed her nothing.

"I'm surprised that you would want the company of a _mere mortal_."

"That makes two of us..."

Despite her frustration, she regarded him sadly. "If you really are dying isn't it time to make your peace with the world?"

"Was your mind at peace when you swept a knife across your wrist?"

He watched with satisfaction as she quickly turned away, though his triumph felt hollow and was sullied by a slither of guilt.

When she finally glanced back at him her eyes were hard as stone. "You can hide behind words all you like, but looking at you is like looking into a mirror."

He blinked at her, caught off guard, unable to summon a response. For a brief moment the pain ravaging his body was dulled by another, by an ache, a twisting, deep inside. He heard his mother's voice. The last words she had ever said to him.

_Always so perceptive about everyone except yourself._

"_So_, the Midgardian is a _philosopher_," he mocked softly, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"Hardly."

"No? With so many books in her possession?"

"You've got a problem with books?" His words had touched a nerve, but her passion secretly pleased him.

"On the contrary."

When her eyes softened slightly he felt compelled to indulge her. It could be an apology of sorts. And in truth, he was becoming too exhausted now for shenanigans. There was also a little voice at the back of his mind, telling him that she didn't deserve his censure. That she was _trying_ to be kind to him, if he would only let her. But rage and hate had run through his veins for so long it was a challenge now to keep them reigned.

"I have seen libraries that would make your head spin. Libraries of such magnitude that you would believe yourself dreaming. Libraries that..."

Loki gasped when a more intense pain surged through him, his head snapping back in agony, contorting, the tendons of his neck becoming pronounced like roots of a tree. Lights exploded behind his eyes, and fire flared in his gut. He genuinely expected death at that moment, bracing himself for it, as facets of his life flashed before him. He saw Thor, Frigga, even Odin, and he was filled with regret until anger at their betrayals quickly intervened.

But he did not die and the pain swiftly returned to the just-bearable. As his head slumped back into the pillow he saw that the woman was watching him desperately. "Are you sure I can't call for an ambulance? You might be wrong. There could be something our doctors can do."

He closed his eyes, ignoring her. Even if they could, which he highly doubted, the events of New York would have them calling for Shield the moment they saw him. And shape shifting into another guise could no longer be relied upon now that his magic had almost dwindled to nothing. Even his own self-healing abilities, had he still been able to conjure them, would have been far too limited for the severity of the incantations afflictions.

When the pain made him gasp again, the woman shocked him by reaching for his hand. He shocked himself by responding, clutching at her, relishing the contact.

His eyes tightened as he was besieged by more conflicting emotions. Her skin was so soft and warm. Her hand so small, her fingers so slender. He could even feel the subtle thudding of her pulse, racing almost as fast as his own.

"I'll stay with you," she whispered. "If that's what you want."

Loki's brow twitched restlessly. Oh, what did it matter? She was nothing. She held no significance. What harm was there in spending his final moments in the company of a young attractive woman, even if she was mortal.

"...Thank you..." he murmured, and this time it felt almost heartfelt.

A strange silence stretched between them. It was neither strained nor comfortable, but it wasn't unpleasant. He was extremely conscious of the heat radiating between their clasped fingers. So much heat from such a small hand, he thought idly. It had been so long since he had experienced such comfort from a woman (his mother aside), given so freely...so willingly.

When she replied, rather daringly: "now that wasn't so difficult, was it?" he didn't have to open his eyes to know that a small smile was tugging at one corner of her mouth, and before he could stop it a smile shivered across his own lips. "I suppose not..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Another quickie, I'm afraid, but I hope you enjoy. :)**

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Chapter 8...

April wasn't quite sure what to do. Should she pull back her hand now? The man didn't seem to want to release it.

A shiver ran down her spine. His skin was so cool to the touch. Unnaturally so. Was the life slowly ebbing from him as death was nearing?

She swallowed tensely, her heart racing in her chest, still shocked that she had made such a bold move. But it had been instinctive, a reflex, the desire to give comfort. She didn't like to see anyone suffering. Even someone like him.

She had been equally shocked that he hadn't been angry at her nerve and snatched her away. Or worse, given his volatile temperament. Though she doubted he'd have the strength now to attack her.

Her brow furrowed, her responses to him confusing her. She had had ample opportunities to flee and call for help, but still she remained, tolerating his abuse, risking her safety. _Why_ was she still here?

His eyes remained closed. Dry blood, from his nose bleed, was smeared across his cheek, vivid against his deathly pale skin. His forehead still glistened with perspiration and there was a worrying tinge of blue to the tight line of his lips. His face had relaxed a degree, but she could tell he was still in pain. It seem to be coming in waves, rising and falling, but the peaks were intensifying.

Watching him, she accepted there was probably another reason why she had reached out for him.

But it was crazy...insane...this strange man was as different to David as night was to day. As dark and arrogant as David had been full of light and kindness. And yet, reaching out for him had almost felt like reaching out for David.

Her chest constricted as grief overwhelmed her, though guilt was not far behind as she remembered...

David had died on the way to the hospital, though at the time she hadn't even known he had been in an accident. But the fact was, she hadn't been there for him. Hadn't been able to hold his hand, give him comfort in his final moments...

She hadn't been able to say goodbye.

"You are thinking about him...your husband..."

The man's voice startled her. For a few seconds she had zoned out. Had not even noticed that he had opened his eyes again and was now watching _her._

She regarded him warily. She couldn't tell if he was asking or telling her. His delivery was slightly ambiguous. Was he that perceptive...or did his magical powers extend to reading minds? She shuddered, hoping that wasn't the case.

"I..."

"How long..." he cut in firmly, though there was a touch of sensitivity to his tone.

She didn't need to ask what he meant. "A year," she returned, somewhat reluctantly, perplexed by his interest. Why should he care? "A year ago yesterday."

His gaze lowered questioningly. "And the necklace marked the event?"

She quickly reached for the chain, fingers wrapping around the ring defensively. "A friend suggested it. As a compromise. Said I couldn't keep it on my finger forever."

* * *

_Sentimentality_, Loki despaired, though he found himself wishing he had something of his mothers to remember her by. One of the ornate pins she liked to wear in her hair, perhaps, or an item of her jewellery. He wondered whether her letter was still in his pocket but hadn't the strength to search for it. It mattered not. He would probably be dead soon. If the fates were merciful, he might even be reunited with her.

"Mortal lives are far too fleeting for grieving," he said at length, but regretted his words when she quickly pulled her hand from his. He had _tried_ to keep his tone sincere.

"I'm supposed to just forget about him?"

Though it vexed him to acknowledge it, he missed the warmth of her hand almost immediately. It had been a pleasant distraction. The contact dulled the pain somehow. Or at least, made him focus away from it.

"Would it not be easier?" Again, he tried to keep any derision from his tone. Tried to be...sympathetic.

She eyed him cynically but finally seemed satisfied that he actually might be in earnest this time. "You can't just stop loving someone. David's a part of me." Her shoulders heaved and she struggled to compose herself. "He always will be."

Loki experienced a sharp twinge of envy. That a worthless mortal would be remembered with such passion while he, The God of Mischief, centuries old, would die this day and no one would even mourn his passing. Odin would, no doubt, be relieved to finally be rid of him, while Thor might grieve for a while but soon return to his fighting and feasting and playing the hero.

But at the same time this chain of thought angered him. Why should he care? It was only the sentimentality that he abhorred so much. So what if no one would grieve. He would be dead. It would not matter.

And yet it _did_ suddenly matter, more intensely than could be deemed rational, and it frustrated, confused...even frightened him. He _wanted_ this mortal to care. He wanted_ someone_ to care. Just once. Before it was all over.

"How did he die?" he blurted, torn between not really caring and needing desperately to know. It was only after the words had been uttered that he realised it might have been rather tactless of him.

"Look," she took a deep breath. "I really don't want to talk about this."

When she suddenly stood up and headed back towards the door, Loki stared after her with something akin to panic, a shaming voice inside imploring her not to leave. "Where are you going?"

She looked back at him in surprise and he hated the fact that she had picked up on his desperation. "To get a damp cloth from the bathroom."

"Cloth?"

"To clean the blood from your face." She watched him anxiously. "If you want me too."

Because words eluded him he simply nodded, her small skittish smile lingering in his mind after she disappeared from the room. He didn't know what to feel. _How_ to feel. He only knew that his pain had dulled again, as if her hand was still wrapped around his.

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Reviews appreciated, thanks. Even little short ones. They encourage me to continue on...:)


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Loki watched the woman curiously as she cleaned his face, wondering what compelled her to want to do such a pointless thing. What did it matter if he was covered in blood? He was dying anyway.

They were so fallible, mortals. Far too sentimental for their own good. It was probably why Thor liked them so much. He could be just as maudlin, just as _soft. _

_Her_ touch was soft. Gentle, though tentative, plainly on tenterhooks, face tense, jaw set tight and not simply in concentration. He could also detect a very subtle tremor to her movements.

"One must look presentable for one's death," he declared dryly, in an attempt to set her at ease. He didn't want her to fear him any longer. Not now. It was as pointless as her cleaning the blood from his face.

"Please don't say that," she admonished lightly, far too keyed up for his humour. "We don't know if you _are_ going to die."

With nefarious timing, the pain chose that moment to peak again. Loki gritted his teeth and clenched his fists against the onslaught, while the woman froze in her cleaning, staring down at him in alarm.

"My body begs to differ," he panted as the pain eased again and his hands slowly uncurled. "Curs-ed incantation."

She resumed her cleaning. "Incantation? That's some sort of spell, isn't it?"

He frowned. "_Spells _are for children."

"I'm sorry. I thought...well...isn't it all just magic?"

He bit back a retort, deciding to forgive her ignorance. She knew nothing of his world, after all. Nothing about the many facets and intricacies of sorcery. And he could not deny that her meticulous attentions to his face were...almost pleasant. That, and the fact that she was leaning in closer and he could feel her warmth.

She smelled faintly of lilies.

"Your hair is quite unique," he found himself remarking, as his eyes traced the coil of one of the fiery red curls. "Like writhing flame."

She flushed almost instantly which amused him.

"And now your face is almost as red," he couldn't resist smirking.

She moved back, flustered. "Well, yours isn't any more." She held up the cloth, now stained a dark copper, before gesturing to the bedside table. "There are tissues there, if it starts bleeding again." She stood up. "I'll just put this in the laundry basket."

His brow furrowed consideringly as he watched her walk away. "April -"

It was the first time he had called her by name and she looked as stunned as he did.

"Yes?" she asked softly, and though she was trying to remain impassive he could see relief, even a hint of pleasure, in her eyes.

"I would like another glass of water..._if you would be so kind."_

She returned to his side and retrieved the empty glass.

He watched her as she headed back towards the door again, noticing that her step was a little lighter, the long tendrils of fire gently bouncing against her back. Calling her by her name had relaxed her a degree. It was a start.

But she hesitated half way across the room, peering down at his feet. "Would you like me to..."

He blinked. "You wish to clean my feet now?" he asked incredulously.

"You're bleeding onto my favourite quilt cover," she promptly countered, though he could see straight through the lie. "And not feet..._foot._ Only one seems to be bloody."

He grinned through his pain. "My apologies. We cannot allow that." He gestured down towards his legs. "By all means, clean away." He cocked an eyebrow. "Tell me, are all mortal women this solicitous? Or are you a healer?"

"A healer?" She gave him a blank look. "You mean...like a nurse?"

He nodded. "Of sorts."

She shook her head. "No. I just..." She faltered.

His head tilted interrogatively "Just?" he prompted.

She shrugged. "I don't like to see people...hurting."

"Even people like me?"

She looked a little worried at that. "What do you mean?"

He realised his mistake. Surprising as it was, he still didn't think she was aware of what happened in New York, at least, not in any comprehensive detail, given her location and recent state of mind, and certainly not enough to connect _him_ to it in _his_ present state. "Well, I have not exactly been the perfect house guest," he back tracked.

She still seemed a little unsettled but managed to conjure one of her small smiles. "People can lash out when they're in a lot of pain. One of our previous cats got hit by a neighbour's car once. When I tried to reach out to help her she cut me to ribbons."

He snorted but there was mischief in his eyes. "You are comparing me to a cat?"

"You know I'm not." She turned away again. "Anyway. I'll go get you that water."

When she had gone Loki stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling, both confounded and...unexpectedly stirred.

What a strange creature. Why would she want to clean his foot? _Tend_ to him in such a way? She was still afraid of him, that much was plain to see despite her attempts to hide it.

Unless...this was some cunning endeavour to tame his mood.

If it was...well, he had to applaud her...for she was succeeding. He could not deny that her attentiveness was...comforting.

He sighed jadedly. It seemed that dying was turning _him_ soft as well.

But those same words returned to his wearied mind. _What did it matter?_

_What did it matter now?_

_April,_ he repeated to himself, somewhat languidly, as a new sensation began to creep into his limbs. A disconcerting numbness that was swiftly replacing the pain.

_April._ It was a pleasant sounding name, almost like a caress to the senses.

As the numbness intensified he knew the end was upon him. He almost wished for the pain to return. It was happening so suddenly.

And so..._peacefully_. No explosion of pain. No thrashing about or screaming. Just an overwhelming desire to sleep.

He wasn't expecting that.

It was rather ironic, given the mortal's words.

_If you really are dying isn't it time to make your peace with the world?_

But quite an anti-climax, he lamented. A poor exit for The God of Mischief. Chaos was his world, not peace.

His eyes fluttered as he tried desperately to keep them open. Something seemed to _give_ inside his chest, like his heart had suddenly plummeted, though he knew there was nowhere for it to fall.

He remembered falling. Not so long ago. He remembered the look on Thor's face. His horror.

Down, down...forever it seemed.

Down to meet a new horror.

Was he still falling now, he wondered, becoming disorientated. Or just his heart?

He knew the darkness was coming.

He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

_April._

He wished he had the strength to call out to her, no longer disappointed that he was about to die, that he would never be king, that no one would mourn. Only that he wouldn't get to see that pretty attentive face one final time.

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Reviews sooooo appreciated. Pretty please?! :)


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks for the reviews! Much appreciated. Glad you're enjoying it.

Thephoenixanddragon4forever – don't worry! I haven't forgotten Heimdall...and neither has Loki. :)

* * *

Chapter 10

* * *

April quickly spooned some food into Sasha's dish, gave him an apologetic pat on the head knowing that the poor cat was probably starving, and then hurried across to the sink to re-fill the glass.

She didn't feel quite so panicky this time, though she was still far from relaxed - a strange and intimidating man remained in her house, after all. But at least he seemed to have mellowed a bit. When he had used her name...well, that was some small relief. _And_ he had allowed her to clean his face. Though she wasn't naïve enough to think either of those gestures made him _safe_, they did make him seem a touch less...dangerous somehow.

As she passed by the strange book, still lying rather ominously (but so tantalisingly!) upon the living room floor, she decided she would tell him about it when she returned upstairs. There might be something in it that could help him. It might even be a book of spells. It certainly looked the part. And that strange aura surrounding it certainly made it _feel_ the part.

Not spells_,_ she corrected herself, remembering the man's annoyance, _incantations_, but that little spark of excitement fleetingly returned as she contemplating _any_ sort of magic existing. He had to have come from some sort of _fantasy_ world. Like in books and movies. She wished she wasn't so queasy with nerves so that she could actually enjoy the fact. It was so easy to fantasise scenarios like this - having a fantasy character suddenly appear in your living room - but the reality was far more terrifying. It was the not knowing. Not knowing whether he was benign (and it was the pain that was making him so hostile) or some psycho murderer in his world.

Rushing up the stairs as fast as she could without spilling the water she stepped back into the spare bedroom. She'd give him this first and then get a cloth from the bathroom for his foot.

"Here is your -"

She stopped with a start, simply staring at the man lying still upon the bed, as something twisted achingly inside her.

_No._

She knew he was dead, and not just because one of his hands hung limply down towards the floor, and his eyes were closed, and his chest no longer seemed to be rising and falling.

She choked back a sob.

Because he looked...at peace.

Her eyes stung and blurred.

It had happened so suddenly. She had barely been gone a couple of minutes. Three at the most.

Guilt overwhelmed her.

He hadn't wanted to die alone.

It was David all over again.

She hadn't been there for him.

Walking slowly over to the bed she mechanically placed the glass of water upon the bedside table and sat down beside him. Watched him. Felt so terribly sad, even though she barely knew him and he had, for the most part, been abusive and disagreeable.

She finally reached out to check for a pulse, half hoping he would snatch at her wrist again, be angry, be _anything_, anything but dead. But there was no movement, no echo of a heartbeat. His hand was cold. Still. Lifeless.

She realised she didn't even know his name.

She felt a hot tear trace a path down her cheek.

_I'm sorry._

_God, I'm sorry_.

She sat, holding his hand, battling her emotions, wavering between the torment of the past as well as the present, David and this man almost merging, becoming one. One and the same.

She shook away the crazy notion, telling herself that she wasn't thinking straight.

But she couldn't help the tears. Confused tears. For both men. She didn't want either to be dead.

And then something suddenly snapped inside her, a frantic distraction from the pain, and she was overwhelmed by a dizzying surge of adrenaline.

CPR? Could she try to resuscitate him? He couldn't have been dead long. She had a vague idea how to do it. Though it had been a hell of a long time since she had learnt it at school.

She quickly stood up, staring down at him anxiously. Time was running out. Wasn't it seven minutes before the brain was starved of oxygen? Or was it eight? And was it thirty chest pumps, and then two breaths? Or three? And where the hell was she supposed to press down upon his chest? In the centre? Below the collar bone?

She dragged her fingers shakily through her hair.

_God, she didn't know if she could do this. What if she did it wrong?_

She took a deep breath. But what was there to lose?

She'd never forgive herself if she didn't at least try.

Biting down upon her lip in anticipation, she carefully eased the pillow out from under him and tilted back his head, his long hair clammy against her skin. Bracing herself, she tentatively pinched his nose and leaned down.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

Reviews muchly appreciated! :)


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

Everywhere was white. A vast landscape of white. Loki could see nothing _but _white. It was both disconcerting and fascinating. But preferable to darkness.

Was he dead? He must be. What other explanation was there? But it didn't look much like Helheim and he was so certain that would be his destination. Then again, it didn't look much like Valhala either.

He frowned.

"No, you're not dead..."

Loki's breath hitched.

_Mother?_

He could not see her at first, though he searched his surroundings frantically. And then she slowly materialised from the white nothingness, looking so beautiful and so radiant that she snatched his breath away all over again.

"Mother?"

"So I _am_ still your mother?" she teased playfully as she approached him, and when she smiled he felt the closest to happiness he had ever known. When she reached out her hands he mirrored her actions unashamedly, hurrying towards her.

When they embraced, the strange landscape blurred, and time seemed to suspend, almost to cease existing altogether, as he held her tighter than he had ever held anyone before.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into the sweet softness of her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," she soothed, her hands gently caressing his back. "I know you are."

For several long blissful moments they remained locked, but then, to Loki's dismay, she suddenly pulled away. "Loki, you do not have much time."

He struggled to compose himself, to rein back his emotions. "What do you mean? Have I not all the time in the world now?" His frown returned. "Is this not Valhala?"

"No, my son. It is the realm that lies _between_ life and death. Where souls linger when destinies are still uncertain."

"But the incantation...did it not...kill me?"

"Not quite..."

He reached out to tenderly caress her arm, though there was urgency in his actions. "Explain, mother. Please."

She smiled sadly. "You did not fight it, Loki."

He flinched back, searching her face in confusion. "What?"

"You simply accepted it."

He stared at her in shock, guessing what she was talking about. The side effects of the incantation. "But...but my magic...was gone...I tried..I tried to summon it."

"Your magic never left you. The intensity of the incantation simply suppressed it. You couldn't summon it...because a part of you chose not to."

He blinked at her in disbelief. "That is ludicrous."

"Is it, Loki? _Is it _r_eally?_" She cocked her head sympathetically and though he hated being pitied, she was the only person he would tolerate it from. "What have I said before..._Always so perceptive_ -"

He swallowed guiltily as she repeated her words, not wanting to be reminded of his cruelty towards her. "._..about everyone but yourself,_" he finished reluctantly.

"You were grief-stricken. Broken." She looked distressed by the knowledge. "You didn't put up a fight. You gave up."

"I do _not_ give up. On _anything_," he quickly protested, though his objection sounded weak even to his own ears. "I _could_ not fight. I _had_ no strength. The pain was too great."

But at the same time a battle began raging inside his turbulent mind as he wondered wildly, _had he?_ _Had_ he given up? Surely not. He had wanted to live.

_Hadn't he?_

She seemed to sense his dilemma and reached down to clasp his hand. Loki's conflicted eyes sought out hers desperately. "Your magic has retreated. Deep inside. You need to draw it back out. Use it to restore your life-force. Else you _will_ die."

She looked so different in death, Loki thought, a heartbeat of calm amidst his bewilderment. Brighter, more vibrant. There was a wonderful aura about her. He still couldn't believe he would willingly choose to die, but now that it had happened, there was a certain appeal to..._staying_ dead.

Besides, what was there to go back to, he thought miserably. Odin despised him. Thor tolerated him. There were few, if any, worlds he was welcome upon. Nowhere to call...home. And time after time he failed.

That exhaustion was back, a debilitating straining of his mind, not just physical. Dragging him down. Always down. He was tired of failing. Tired of despair. Tired of anger and rage and terrible dreams that woke him at night in a cold sweat.

He shuddered at the thought of Thanos, knowing that those initial tortures he had endured to _persuade_ him to bend to their will, would be nothing compared to those he would receive after failing to deliver the Tesseract.

He could be free of it all, all the wretched emotions that plagued his mind, all threat of Thanos, if he _stayed_ dead.

He could finally stop..._falling._

"What if I choose _not_ to go back?" he blurted irrationally. "What if I choose to stay." He swallowed hesitantly. "With you." Though he still held his mother's hand, the other clenched tightly at his cowardice, nails digging into his palms. He felt disgusted with himself. The fact he was even contemplating running away.

But he did not know which way to turn. He felt wrenched in so many different directions. And so forcefully he feared he might just tear apart completely.

Frigga's face mirrored his turmoil. Touched that he wanted to stay with her, but also heavyhearted. "It is not your time to die, Loki. Your destiny is to _mend_. To find peace. There is still much you need to live for. Important things."

He rolled his eyes. "_Peace?" _he baulked._ "_I am not a man of _peace_."

"No, you are a man of chaos. That cannot be denied. It is in your nature. It runs through your veins. But life is neither one nor the other. There is a balance. There always has been."

He raised an eyebrow sceptically.

She moved in closer, whispering into his ear. "Ordered chaos, Loki," she pointed out light-heartedly. "I am sure you have heard of it."

He snorted. "Seriously, mother?"

"It cannot hurt to try." She drew back, amusement in her eyes. "Besides, you would quickly become bored in Valhala. And it is no place for your shenanigans."

"I assumed I would end up in Helheim," he returned dryly.

A shadow passed across her face. "Please do not jest, Loki. That outcome still hangs by a hairsbreadth."

Seeing her distress and concern, he was overwhelmed with guilt. And so much regret. He wished _with all that was left of his shattered heart _that he could take back those fatal words.

_You might want to take the stairs to the left._

His head felt heavy as he shook it remorsefully. "I'm sorry," he repeated hoarsely, fearing he could never say it enough. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, my sweet boy," she smiled reassuringly "It was my time."

His anger flared. He wanted to scream out that it _shouldn't_ have been. And _wouldn't_ have been. If not for him. "I _will_ avenge you."

She sighed, as if that somehow disappointed her, but there was a resigned look in her eyes. "I know you will. And so will Thor."

_Thor?_ he thought bitterly. He would not give him the satisfaction of avenging Frigga. Besides, he would be too swift, too sparing, and Loki wanted the murderer to suffer, to feel an eternity of pain.

He took a deep breath, accepting now that his mother was right. He had to go back. Running away was not the answer. How could he avenge her if he were dead?

"I will miss you."

He would miss her _so_ much. She was the only one who had truly loved him, unconditionally. And despite what she said, he would never stop regretting, never stop feeling guilty.

"And I, you." She smirked in a way that reminded him so much of himself that he found it hard to believe that she wasn't his real mother. "But I will be watching."

"Like Heimdall?" he tried to joke but he hurt too much inside for it to carry any real humour.

"Like a concerned _mother,_" she amended.

But apprehension flooded her face again. "You must go. Go back. Now, Loki."

He nodded compliantly. "How?"

"Your magic. Wield it. It is waiting. You just need to summon it forth."

She reached across to embrace him one final time. "Promise me you will at least _try_ to behave."

He smiled mournfully into her hair. "I promise." Though he couldn't resist adding: "Give or take a few...shenanigans."

Her laugh, warm as sunshine, tore at his heart as they parted, because he knew it would be the last time he heard it. At least for some time.

He _would_ miss her. But she had ignited a new determination inside him, a fortitude that was already beginning to grow stronger. He wasn't quite sure whether it was the confirmation that he hadn't lost his magic after all, but he suddenly _wanted_ to go back. _Wante_d this second chance.

Wanted to make her proud.

Or at least _try_ to...her terms were vexing to say the least. Surely now that they had made their peace, she would relent. "I still have to endure Midgard for a _whole_ year?"

She gave him a stern look. "Not a day less."

"But am I not forgiven?" he implored, though the mischief had returned, for he already knew she would not compromise. In truth, she would have disappointed him if she had.

"It is not me you need to seek forgiveness from. You know that."

Loki smarted. He hated the thought of fawning to _any_ mortal. He was a _god_. It would be beneath him.

But he found himself hesitating, remembering fire-red hair and small tentative smiles.

And the smell of lilies as she had leaned in close.

This chain of thought perplexed him so he quickly focussed back upon his mother.

Her eyes were glistening. "You _will_ make me proud," she encouraged, as if she had read his mind. "Do not fret, Loki."

He smiled cheerlessly. "I will try."

_But I will not be denied my revenge. _He vowed to himself._ I will slit the throat of the monster that did this to you_.

"I love you..."

"I love you too, mother."

As she began to fade, the world of white turned dark and he swiftly focussed inwards, upon his magic, with every shred of intent he could muster.

* * *

I hope that made sense. Basically, Loki had given up but didn't realise it! Though I'm sure he'll still remain in denial when he returns! :D

Reviews always appreciated, pweety please.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

No longer suppressed, Loki's magic surged back through him. There was a loud tumultuous rushing in his ears, like he was plunging through water, then the darkness was replaced by thousands of tiny flickers of brilliant iridescent light. As he was catapulted back into the land of the living, a final, incredibly intense, burst of energy jolted his heart back into life, his body jerking forward by the power, arms splaying wide. He heard a cry, though it was not his own, and his eyes snapped open, instantly alert and primed for action.

He grinned excitedly down at his outstretched hands, no longer feeling any pain or weakness. In fact, he felt completely energised, _rejuvenated!. _Contorting his fingers experimentally, he was elated to feel his magic again, to feel it sparking through his veins, engulfing his entire being.

_It felt so damn good!_

But then he remembered Frigga and his jubilation plummeted like a stone.

His mother was still dead, and it would still be a long time before he would see her again.

His shoulders heaved.

_Mother. _

How he would miss her.

But he was grateful, so very grateful, for their second chance. To have been in her arms one final time. To have felt her warmth. Her love. To know that she...forgave him.

He took a deep breath.

Forgiving _himself_ would take longer. If at all. And he suspected the latter, doubting he would ever stop regretting his destructive actions. He had been responsible and nothing could change that.

_I will be watching._

His eyes flicked up to the ceiling and he managed a ghost of a smile, wondering if she was watching him now. It wouldn't be the same...but it would be something. He would try not to disappoint her.

As he composed himself, focussing back upon his restored magic and moreover, his return to Midgard, he suddenly remembered something else.

_He had heard a cry._

And it had been neither himself or his mother.

When he swept his gaze across the room he saw her – the mortal – lying upon the floor, blood trickling from a cut to her lip, her eyes fluttering as she tried to gather her senses.

His instinctive reaction was _oooops _but only because he could plainly see that she was not dead, just a little dazed. But his initial blasé was swiftly followed by a stab of shame and goaded further by his guilt, he scrambled nimbly from the bed and hurried across to her side. He realised he must have lashed out and struck her when his magic returned, though he was curious to know why had she been so close.

As he squatted down he couldn't help but notice that her face was damp, her eyes a little red and puffy.

It took him aback.

Had she been crying?

Crying...for _him?_

He instantly dismissed the crazy notion. Why would she do that, he berated himself. It was absurd.

Except...he remembered the compassion he had seen in her eyes, her admission that she hadn't liked seeing him in pain, the fact that she had _cared_ enough to want to clean the blood from his face...

When she finally focused upon him, her initial flare of panic was quickly replaced by shock.

"...You're alive?"

Loki blinked. Was that relief he could detect in her tone?

"Evidently," he smirked, though beneath his trademark grin he was trying to process the fact that she seemed..._glad_ that he had returned.

_Glad? _He could make no sense of it. It was too baffling to comprehend. Especially after the way he had treated her. She had been_ frightened_ of him. Surely she would have preferred him dead?

And yet, her bewildering behaviour continued to stir him as much as it confused him.

She grimaced, reaching up to her lip, tentatively examining the wound. When she withdrew her fingers she stared down at the blood in alarm.

He had the decency to look – and _almost_ feel - remorseful. "I apologise. It was not my intention to hurt you. My magic returned with more..." his lips twitched again. "..._Gusto _than I was expecting."

The wariness returned to her eyes, her initial relief fading. "Your magic is back?"

Despite her concern, which he accepted was understandable given the circumstances, he felt jubilant by his resurrection and couldn't hide it. "_It is indeed_," he declared charismatically. "Shall we give it its first test?"

He reached out for her face but frowned when she immediately flinched back.

"I am not going to harm you," he insisted, and though his voice was gentle there was an undercurrent of impatience.

He reached forward again, his own fingers hovering over her mouth now. He rarely healed other people, he had only studied the healing arts for himself because it was useful in battle, but he felt he owed her this.

Her eyes widened in amazement as the wound gradually disappeared beneath an aura of green incandescent light. Though she couldn't see it, he knew she could feel it.

When he drew away again, her hand quickly returned to her lip.

"It's gone," she gasped as she lightly patted the area.

He watched, almost mesmerised, as she cautiously flexed her mouth, the tip of her tongue darting out to further examine the area but so fleetingly he doubted she was even aware of it.

"It was the least I could do."

"You...you can _heal_ people?" The awe flooding her face filled Loki with a gratification that he had not felt in a long time. His magic had always been ridiculed, disrespected, reduced to mere _tricks_...except on those rare occasions it was needed, and then it was deemed _acceptable_.

"Only minor inflictions," he hastily pointed out. "The power is mainly reserved for my own needs."

"_Only?_ It's amazing." She smiled, still seeming rather overwhelmed. "Thank you."

A smile tugged at his own lips. Not a smirk, or a grin, but what would have been a genuine smile if he hadn't forced it back down, along with a sudden desire to dazzle her further.

Instead, he offered her his hand, his assistance, to rise.

After a brief hesitation her hand slipped into his and Loki suspected that healing her had set her further at ease. Made him seem less of a threat. But as he pulled her to her feet she let out a gasp.

"There are other injuries?"

He hoped there was nothing more serious. His healing powers were limited when it came to other people.

She shook her head as she limped across to the bed. "I just think I'm going to have a few bruises in the morning."

"I can heal bruising easily enough."

"It doesn't matter."

But she looked delicate as she sat down, and though she tried to hide it, he noticed her grimace again.

"Are you quite sure?" he persisted, remembering his own recent pain.

"I'll survive." She forced another smile. "But thanks for the offer."

He regarded her interrogatively, eyes narrowing. "May I ask _why_ you were you so close?"

"What?"

"You must have been very close for me to hit you with such force."

When he noticed her flush a little his curiosity was roused.

"CPR."

His frown deepened. Midgardian terminology had changed drastically over the last few centuries. It was frustrating. "C...P...R? What is that?"

"...mouth to mouth," she tried again.

The smirk was back, and he cocked his head, expression positively devilish. "Mouth...to mouth? You were trying to...kiss me?"

"No, of course not!" she flustered. "It's something we do here on Earth. To try to save someone's life. You breathe into their mouth. Try to give them air. To make their heart start again. I don't know the specifics, just that it can sometimes work."

His smile wavered and he experienced a strange burning at the back of his throat. "You tried to save my life?"

"Well, I _would_ have tried if you hadn't have come back yourself...and whacked me." But the amusement in her eyes quickly turned to puzzlement. "You seem...surprised."

"I..." he swallowed down the fire, unable to summon any words as he stared back at her in stunned silence.

She had mourned him _and_ tried to save his life?

"Why?" he demanded hoarsely.

"_Why?_" Now she looked at him as if he were stupid. "Why do you think? Because I didn't want you to be dead."

He joined her on the edge of the bed, sitting close but not too close, and feeling more than a little dazed as he stared down at his hands restlessly.

They were silent for several long moments.

He cleared his throat self-consciously. "I...thank you."

"Well, technically I didn't do anything..."

"I thank you for the..._sentiment_." It was that word again. That word he loathed. That filled him with frustration and anger...

But now?

The silence returned and Loki dragged a hand through his dank hair, mind racing for something, anything, to say. The Silvertongue was _never_ lost for words.

And then there was a loud rumble. The mortal's stomach. Ironically, he was glad for it.

He glanced at her, noticing that she had coloured again. Darker. He was beginning to find it rather endearing.

"You are hungry?" he asked, amused.

"A bit," she admitted sheepishly. "I missed lunch. But it can wait."

"It appears that your stomach thinks otherwise."

She shrugged dispassionately. "It's waited before."

He could well believe it. He still thought she looked far too undernourished and decided it might be in her best interests to eat a meal. _Or ten. _

He pondered. If he had to do some...good...on Midgard, maybe helping to restore the mortal back to the vivacious woman in the photographs would be something worthy of merit. It would hardly be a hardship, he decided, as he discreetly admired that cascade of fascinating hair in his peripheral vision. Besides, he could hardly do anything too conspicuous to redeem himself. He was a fugitive, after all. And did not want SHIELD to catch wind that he had returned.

Or Odin.

He feared his suppressed magic might have failed to screen him from Heimdall just before, and during, his time with his mother in the strange white realm. When he assumed he had briefly died. Though his screens were fully restored now he would have to be vigilant for any sudden changes in the weather, any lightning strikes or crashes of thunder. The fact that he had his magic back was reassuring. He would do everything in his power to avoid being taken back to Asgard. Back to that cell.

When the mortal's stomach rumbled again he bit back a chuckle, thankful for the distraction.

Though he didn't need to eat quite as often as mortals, he could not deny that returning from the dead had suddenly given him an appetite.

"I could certainly do with some sustenance. The past few hours have left me rather...fatigued." The last part was a lie, he had never felt more _alive_, but he hoped it might persuade her.

She peered at him diffidently. "You want me to make you something to eat?"

He flashed her an encouraging smile, almost wishing his own stomach would rumble in support. "If you wouldn't mind."

She stood up, looking a little perplexed, as if that was the very last thing she would have expected him to ask. "Sure. Ok..."

He glanced up at her. "You wish me to follow?"

"Well, it would be best eaten at the kitchen table," she agreed with a nod and faint hint of sarcasm that he found amusing.

He sprung from the bed, lithe as a cat, making her jump a little.

Sweeping out his arm, he gestured theatrically. "Then please, lead the way."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Hope you're continuing to enjoy!

Please review if you have a moment. I soooo love reading them!


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